Her mouth forms a rueful smile. “Sure, Grayson. Let me give you another thing to rag on me for, because you can’t find enough on your own.” Her voice lowers into a piss-poor imitation of a man as she says, “Don’t know how to shuck oysters, Boston? They didn’t teach you how to find a towel yourself up in the city?”
I’d laugh at how terrible her impression is, except I’m caught up in the sting behind it. Her exhale stutters out and her expression flattens.
“It’s okay to not know how to do something.” I say it gently, because right now, it seems like the wrong combination of words could make her crack.
“It is, when you’re not fighting daily to gain the respect you deserve.”
The pool game at Dyl’s, playing basketball last weekend—it all rushes back. Both times, I’ddaredher to play. Not to embarrass her, but because she seemed lonely and it rubbed me the wrong way. I wanted to give her something to do. Something that could replace that loneliness with a triumphant smile or that ball-busting attitude.
And I guess teasing is more in my nature than saying something like that straight.
She’s always so confident. I never once thought she was saying yes because of some absurd pressure toproveherself.
“I do res?—”
“Hey, Eliza! Been looking for you!”
Amanda’s voice booms through the warehouse, cutting me off. Eliza’s hand flinches, like there’s someinstinct to pull away. Like she’s been caught revealing parts of herself she’s not supposed to.
I don’t release her.
Looking over my shoulder at Amanda’s shadow, I call out, “Can you go get Martha? Eliza cut her hand open. Might need stitches.”
“Oh, crap! Sure—be right back.”
I turn back and level Eliza with my gaze. “Here are your two options. Either I’m driving you to the ER, or you’ll let Martha, who’s an ER nurse, fix you up.”
Her forehead knits. “Or, option three, I can drive myself to the ER.”
I’m not one of those men who gets off on controlling women. People can make their own decisions. But I’ll slice my own hand open before I let Eliza get into a driver’s seat right now.
“You need two hands to drive, and one of them is out of commission.” She hasn’t gotten woozy yet, but fainting from the sight of blood isn’t a non-possibility. “You’re not driving yourself,” I state, not caring one bit that I sound domineering. “I’ll take you. Or, you can get someone else to drive you. That’s your option three.”
Her sigh breathes fire. “I really do not like you right now, Grayson.”
“That implies youhaveliked me, and will like me again.”
Her tongue darts out over her lips. They’re supple and smooth with a little shine, like she’s wearing lip balm.
Kissable.
I’m too aware of how easy it’d be to test that theory. Kneeling before her, I’m situated between her knees, my fingers wrapped around her hand. She’s leaning toward me again, her braids dangling, close enough to see every detailof the long lashes swooping away from her eyes and the streaks of gold slicing through her olive irises.
“Were you put here to annoy me?” she murmurs, but it lacks her usual bite.
“Are you really that annoyed?”
Something flickers in her hazel eyes—until a commotion at the warehouse’s entrance interrupts us.
She straightens as Amanda bustles over with Martha, an older woman I’ve practically known since birth. I recognize the small purple kit in her hand, all too familiar with it myself. The thing must be twenty years old at this point.
She’s stitched me up four times now. Anson, maybe twice. Dawson, probably ten. Consequences of her living next door to three wild brothers, and having a damn soft touch to boot. Even as adults, we’ve always preferred going to her than waiting hours at the ER for a tired doctor to jab you with a needle and the front desk to slap you with a two-thousand-dollar bill.
Plus, visits to Martha always come with cookies.
She tuts when she’s close enough to see the blood-stained paper towel. “What have we got here?”
Amanda peeks over my shoulder. “What the hell did you cut yourself with?”
